


Memories Remain

by LadyShadowWraith



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:21:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24288835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyShadowWraith/pseuds/LadyShadowWraith
Summary: Based off a writing prompt from a friend- Bilbo reminisces on his journey, and what he wishes he had done before all he had were memories.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Kudos: 14





	Memories Remain

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little fic based off a writing prompt. I haven't written anything Bagginshield in way too long, and I thought it was fitting for the prompt- This is what was left when he was gone

The years pass, as they always have, but some things never change.

Some do, of course. My poor cousins never come back from their boating trip, and I take in my young cousin Frodo. He calls me Uncle, and is just as adventurous as any Brandybuck, just like his mother. The world of Men and the Big People changes constantly, people coming and going, always fighting and trying to outdo each other. Some things never change. Lobelia still is convinced I have mountains of treasure under Bag End (it’s only one small chest, please) and tries to steal my silver, the Green Dragon still serves the best brews, and life is quiet.

The ache, the pain, never changes either.

I’ve heard it said that you don’t know what you have until it’s gone, but I would counter that. Sometimes… you know _exactly_ what you have, but you cannot truly _have_ it. All that’s left, once it’s over, is the memories- and oh, I have so many. I’ve taken to writing it all down, so that it’s preserved even after I’m gone, that future generations will know the bravery, the nobility, and the tragedy that accompanied my unexpected journey.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I didn’t want to go, in the first place. Gandalf sprang it all on me, _lied_ to the dwarves about what I was, and then had the utter nerve to be annoyed with me when I decided I didn’t want to be eaten by a dragon (thank you so much for those vivid images, Bofur. I miss you.) But then that night, in my bed… I heard him sing. Let me tell you of Thorin Oakenshield’s voice- it will be a poor description, and I feel sorry that you will never hear it as I did. His voice is as deep as the mines he has worked in, as strong as the mountains themselves, and the sorrow in it as he sang of his lost homeland… I found myself with tears in my eyes, when I had no intention of being moved at all. But his pain was as depthless as the sea, and it spoke to my soul more than any words ever had. Thorin Oakenshield is the reason I set foot outside my door that next morning, and I have never regretted it.

No, not even at the end.

We didn’t get along at first, of course. He didn’t think very much of me, and I thought that he thought entirely too much of himself. It wasn’t until we were all captured by those Trolls (and I still blame Fili and Kili for that, idiot boys that they were- gone too soon, far too soon) that I think he started to afford me a little bit of respect. I admit, it was a risky move, trying to get them to argue until the sun came up, but it worked! And despite whatever he may have felt about me at the time, he still protected me when the Wargs and Orcs came hunting us, when we entered Rivendell (oh, what a glorious place! One day I shall return)... he even risked himself to pull me back off the cliff face. Of course, he shouted at me directly after, but I suppose I had earned it, a bit. I _was_ thinking of my home, and wishing that I could go back to it, but after the Goblins captured them, and I had my run-in with Gollum, listening to them talk and try to find me, I knew that I couldn’t. And I stood up to that Dwarf, that _King_ , and told him the truth- I had a home, yes, but they didn’t anymore, and I would do everything I could to help take it back. 

Which included, apparently, throwing myself at the Pale Orc with nothing but Sting in my hand, to try to save Thorin. I’ve no idea how I survived, but I did. I think that was when I realized I loved him, a deep, desperate love that I knew would never come to fruition, but was there nonetheless. And when he hugged me, on that peak after the eagles had saved us… I knew nothing would ever be the same. He truly respected me after that, and I him, and he _listened_ , made the others listen when they were bickering about getting in the wine barrels. It was the only way to get us out, though it certainly wasn’t going to be pleasant- I never meant for Kili to get shot, or expected the Orcs to be waiting for us. 

I vouched for him in front of Laketown, told them that Thorin Oakenshield was a man of his word, and he would do as he said. He looked so very much like a King, standing there in front of all the people, though his clothing was ragged and he wore no jewels. No, it was _how_ he stood, tall and regal, the way his voice rang out with confidence and compassion… that is what makes a King, in my opinion. And I truly, deeply, believed that he would. I just hadn’t counted on the dragon sickness… I felt terrible, hiding the Arkenstone in my pocket, but when I saw how he reacted to the gold, turned into a shadow of his former self… I knew that I could not give it to him, let him fall further into the madness that had taken his grandfather. 

I betrayed him, yes, but in the name of love. Perhaps that doesn’t make it better, but it was my reasoning, and I stand by it.

I traded the Arkenstone to Thranduil and Bard and Gandalf, went back to the mountain, and nearly got myself thrown off the battlements for it. But I still believe it was worth it. Couldn’t he see why I’d done it? I loved him, and I didn’t want to lose him. And yet in the end… I did. I wasn’t fast enough, strong enough, to help him in that final fight, only woke from being knocked out in time to see him be stabbed. It was all I could do to run to his side and cradle his head in my lap, finally giving into the urge to run my fingers through his dark hair. I pointed out the eagles to him even as the tears ran down my face, listened as he told me to return home and plant my tree, read my books, and live. I begged him not to die, to stay with me, that I _loved him_ , more than any of that, and I wanted to remain in the mountain with him.

Our first kiss was our last, mixed with tears and blood and sorrow, and yet I still treasure it. Memories are all I have now, as I sit here in my home, memories and hindsight. I look out my window at my oak tree, and I can almost imagine him sitting underneath it, hair flowing in the breeze as he works at carving something- a life that might have been if the world was different. When I look to my dining room, I see him, regal and quiet, at the head of my table, eating a simple soup and ruling over his friends and comrades. And if I look to the distance, I pretend that I can see the peak of the Lonely Mountain, where he lies forevermore, entombed in the halls of his home, his nephews at his side- but in my dreams he is alive and vibrant, crowned in gold and jewels, ruling with a fair and just hand, and I at his side, loved and loving in return.

But it isn’t so, and only the memories remain, a constant companion for the rest of my days. I can only hope that I will see him again, when I pass from this life into the next, and I can tell him everything that I should have, long before we reached the mountain and I lost him forever.

Memories are a poor substitute for love. Don’t waste it, if you are lucky enough to fall into it. Learn from my mistake, and tell them as soon as you can. Even a day is better than nothing.


End file.
